A Small Thing
by Idamonae
Summary: [Shawshank Redemption]Heywood reflects on a moment he witnessed between Red and Andy that he’ll never forget.Slash


Title: A Small Thing

Genre: Romance (Slash)

Rating: R

Summary: Heywood reflects on a moment he witnessed between Red and Andy that he'll never forget.

_Disclaimer: I don't own a god damned thing. The lines in italics are stolen directly from the screenplay, as written by Frank Darabont. Everything else belongs to Stephen King I suppose, with a bit of leeway thrown in for all the folks at Castle Rock and Columbia that contributed to the film adaptation. "If I Didn't Care" written by Jack Lawrence, "Satisfaction" written by Jaggar and Richards. Unlike Red, I ain't making no twenty percent, and this is for entertainment purposes only. _

_xxxx_

Shawshank Prison would have been described as dreary and _cold _on even the warmest day of the year, and today was certainly no exception. Despite the impressionable heat of July being enough to melt the balls off even the toughest men, there was a solid icy cloud that hung over the Maine correctional facility. Business as usual, then.

_If I didn't care, more than words can say__  
__If I didn't care, would I feel this way_

_If this isn't love, then why do I thrill__  
__And what makes my head go round and round…__  
_

The cleaning crew that graced the Brooks Hatlen Memorial Library with its presence every week, like clockwork, shuffled through the rows of books to the dated tune, bitching and grumbling the whole way. As far as Heywood was concerned, they all ought to realize how fuckin' lucky they were to have any music to listen to at all. Why, back in his day….Christ, he'd been in stir for more than fifteen years before the library had been opened as it was now. There was only one time in those first, almost two decades it was, that he'd heard one peep of _real_ music, and as lovely as Andy Dufresne's music choice had been, he'd never really been an opera man. Chin-Ital-Greek is what the boys had called it. Andy had made it up to him a few years later with a healthy supply of Hank Williams LP's though, so he couldn't complain.

_While my heart stands still__  
__If I didn't care, would it be the same__  
__Would my every prayer, begin and end, with just your name…_

"Would someone turn that fuckin' shit off," bellowed one of the younger men as he grudgingly slopped more water onto the floor with his dirty mop. Heywood winced at the combined sound of the wet mop smacking the hardwood and the needle scratching over the vinyl as it was abruptly removed from the turntable. Fuckin' kids. They had no respect. None. Something newer was replaced onto the old record player, The Stones, or so the kids called them. Heywood had no fucking idea, but it didn't sound too bad, and any kind of music made the work easier._  
_

_I can't get no, satisfaction…__  
_

The aging inmate laughed. Truer words was never said, really. But even as the strains of the modern rock n' roll filled the room, he felt an odd sense of deja vu when he saw Freddy and Rich, two new kids, trying to teach each other how to dance. He stopped his dusting and watched the two fuck about in the middle of the library, making asses of themselves, and watched as the years melted away. Suddenly, it was 1960 all over again, and they had just finished construction on the library. Everything was shiny and new, and Andy had wanted to test the turnin' table to make sure it worked…

_1960_

_The smooth notes of Johanne Strauss' Blue Danube filled the library, reverberating off the freshly painted walls and echoing down the empty hallway. It was a lovely song. Dufresne always picked that classical, pansy shit, but Heywood had to admit that it sounded ok. Andy had a dopey smile on his face, kind of like the look Snooze got when he smoke his reefer. But Andy didn't smoke. Apparently. You sure as hell wouldn't know it to look at him now, dancing real slow with some invisible partner, turning round and round, all the while with that dopey grin plastered on his mug, his eyes closed. Ernie looked up from some book he was flipping through and gave a snicker. Some of the other fella's followed suit, but Red remained quiet, watching the display with a strange look in his eyes. He'd seen that look before. Lately, Red would usually get that look when he was talking about Andy, talking to Andy, sharing the same space as Andy…_

_If Heywood didn't know better, he'd say the ol' coon was in love with the lanky, opera-lovin' librarian. "Well, I'll be damned." He muttered under his breath. He'd seen it happen before, with some of the other guys. Hell, a lifetime in this hole, with no tits for miles, anything could happen. But he'd never thought that Red…_

_Heywood looked Andy over one more time. It made sense, he supposed. Andy represented everything that Red thought he wasn't, after all. What a head scratcher. He supposed he'd ask Red about it, soon as he got a chance._

_The teasing from the other guys in the room had escalated, and Andy had stopped his dance and was now actively defending himself against their bigoted criticism. "Dancing is very cathartic." He was saying. "It's like the music itself really. An extension of the notes, the emotions involved. Dancing, like music, can heal the soul! It's a beautiful thing."_

_Heywood laughed. "I don't know about any cathar- cat-arsed shit, but you sure look like a damn fool, prancing all around here by yourself." He felt bad after saying it, as he watched the smile disappear from Andy's face, a mask of indifference smoothing over his boyish features. Damn. He spared a glance at Red, and the old sayin' "if looks could kill" came to mind._

"_Well," Andy began, moving toward the turntable in an effort to shut it down, "if that's how you all feel-"_

"_Wait, Andy. Don't turn it off just yet." Red interrupted. The older man stared at his sleeve, suddenly very interested in the stains and tears in it as he worked the end through his fingers, looking nervous. "Now I don't know much about dancing, but you might be right about that healing bit."_

_Heywood watched the smile slowly return to Andy's pale face, and felt something like relief. There was a spark of hope in the young man's eyes that matched what he'd seen in Red's earlier. So that's how it was then. He wondered if they both knew. It was so fuckin' obvious. "let me teach you?" He heard Andy ask, and red's hesitancy was just as obvious as his feelings for his fellow inmate. _

"_Go'head, Red." Heywood supplied. Might as well give the man a kick in the right direction. "Might as well demonstrate. We might all learn something." There were a few rude comments form the back, but he ignored them, intent on the two men staring at each other nervously like teenagers. This was ridiculous. Funny as hell, for sure, but ridiculous. But it did answer his question: they didn't know. Neither had the foggiest idea._

_The slow coming together was like something out of the fairy stories his mamma used to read him as a kid. Though, this was certainly one fucked up fairy tale. Still, the two moved together alright, even though Red kept stepping on Andy's feet, cursing every time he did so. The other guys stopped their malicious teasing, and after a few minutes, some decided to join in. For a few precious minutes, ever con in the prison library was off their ass and doing their best impression of their two teachers: some with success, most without. But it was a damn good time…_

1968

Heywood shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It hadn't been that long ago, really. So much had changed since then, though. For one thing, Red and Andy were no longer residents at Shawshank. Andy had taken off rather unexpectedly in 1966, breaking out and leaving behind a shit pile that had stunk up the whole state. He did get rid of that fuckstick Norton, though. _And_ Hadley. God bless him. Red had gotten out last year on parole. Word had it that he'd jumped ship. No one seemed to know if he was dead, or if he'd simply taken off for greener pastures.

Heywood had his own ideas. He was willing to bet they were together, somewhere. In fact, he'd bet a pack of smokes on it. The look in their eyes that day had said it all. They weren't queers or nuthin', no. Couldn't be, not with the way they both leered at their lady pinups. It had been something more. Such a small thing, Red's look, but it had been something special.

It wasn't something Heywood ever thought he'd forget, that's for damn sure. He hoped they were together. They deserved that much.

His revere was broken by the sound of the end of shift alarm. It was time for supper, and damn good. Heywood chucked the rag he'd been dusting with onto the cleaning cart and shouted at the juniors to hurry the fuck up. Smiling, he took up the Lovesick Blues, whistling all the way to the mess hall.

_xxxx_


End file.
